


i'll keep you safe

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump, cw blood, post mag 176
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25391740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: Martin crashes post-traumatizing encounter with the Hunt.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 26
Kudos: 225





	i'll keep you safe

**Author's Note:**

> just a short one this time! cw: blood, injury
> 
> (internal thoughts are formatted in italics)

_Keep moving. Just keep moving._

They’ve been following Basira through the brush for nearly twenty minutes now, the dense foliage becoming streaked with red each time Martin brushes past it. He barely notices this, however, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Basira’s feet in front of him.

_Can’t stop can’t stop can’t stop_

As they continue on, Martin can feel his concentration waning—now that the heart-pounding terror of the last hour has passed, his adrenaline-induced laser focus has been gradually sliding its way into brain fog. Everything around him becomes muffled, replaced only by the sound of his own thoughts and ever-quickening breath.

And then his vision begins to fade at the edges.

_I think I’m…gonna…_

A sharp pain in his neck brings back to some level of awareness, even as everything begins to grey out around him. Instinctively bringing a hand up to the point of discomfort, Martin hisses when it begins to sting even more, and draws his hand back—

_Blood blood blood blood blood_

Everything is drowning in it, his hands, his clothes, his shoes—all red and dripping and heinous and _wrong wrong wrong._

The world spins sickeningly, and Martin is pulled down into it at once.

\---

One moment, Martin is walking in front of him, and the next, he’s slamming into the ground on all fours. Jon very nearly trips over him, steadying himself against a nearby tree as his balance wavers.

“ _Christ!_ Martin?” Jon yelps, causing Basira to whip around in alarm.

“What is it? What’s wrong with him?” she demands, striding back through the brush at once.

If Jon hears her question, he does not respond, kneeling down at once with a hand on Martin’s back and trying to catch his gaze. Martin’s head lolls toward the earth as he begins to mumble.

“Blood…ev’ry…ev’rywh’re,” he slurs, eyelids fluttering dangerously.

_Oh god._

Jon puts a hand under his chin, gently tilting his face upwards.

“Martin, look at me—"

“I said, _what’s wrong with him?”_ Basira cuts in, voice severe.

Jon snaps his gaze to hers in fury, every word of reply pointed and scathing.

“ _I don’t know,_ Basira.”

Their brief interaction is just long enough for Martin to lose consciousness altogether, bonelessly tipping over into the bristling undergrowth.

“Oh _shit shit—”_

Jon hands hover wildly over Martin, panicked and unsure, as he tries to determine the cause of his collapse. With a start, he realizes that Martin was right—Trevor’s blood is _everywhere,_ coating the entirety of his left side.

_So much blood._

_God._

Basira’s voice breaks through his panic as she joins Jon in crouching beside Martin.

“Stay calm, and put him on his side. He’s probably in shock.”

Jon freezes momentarily, processing Basira’s words with all the speed of a tortoise.

_On his side. Right._

_Stay calm._

At last, he springs into action, gently rolling Martin over to face them—his expression listless, as if he were sleeping. Basira pulls one of Martin’s knees up toward his chest, then pulls one arm beneath his head to pillow it.

“Will he be alright?” Jon asks, trying desperately to keep his tone neutral.

In lieu of a response, Basira simply shoots him a glare and stands.

“Watch over him. I’m going to keep a look out.” 

She draws her gun and steps away into the foliage, back barely visible amidst the sea of green.

Jon takes a deep, shuddering breath.

_Stay calm. You have to stay calm._

As if on cue, Martin begins to stir slightly, eyes squeezing and relaxing intermittently. Leaning over him, Jon cards his fingers through the damp fringe hanging over his eyes.

“Martin? Can you hear me?”

Though his eyes remain closed, Martin groans lowly as he begins to move his head.

“Hey, there you are. You with me?” Jon asks, hoping that his voice does not sound as desperate as he feels.

_Please wake up, please, please_

At last, Martin’s eyes flutter open, staring off into the middle distance for several moments as he blinks. For his part, Jon feels dizzy with relief.

_Thank god thank god thank god_

As he becomes more aware of his surroundings, Martin’s brows furrow and he brings a hand to clutch at the wound on his throat, exhaling a shaking, pained cry. Jon lays a hand on his arm in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

“Okay, let’s take care of that. You’re alright, you’re…you’re going to be alright, Martin, just stay with me.”

Jon can see his own hands shaking now, and knows he has to ignore it, has to push through and _stay calm stay calm stay calm._ Or soon, he would join the Prey, just as Trevor had. Sliding his pack off his back, he begins rummaging through it in search of their first aid kit—the one that Martin had the foresight to buy before the world ended in Scotland. As he does so, Martin begins to prop himself up to sitting, bracing on one shaking elbow.

“No no, darling, just stay down, just stay down,” Jon soothes, pushing him back down gently by the shoulders and glancing nervously at Basira.

He _Knows_ that she is dangerously close to just leaving them behind, and the last thing he wants to do is compel her to stay.

_Need to work quickly._

Bending back over Martin, Jon takes a cursory look at the wound on his neck, the matching scar on his own beginning to twinge in sympathy.

“It’s still bleeding, Martin. I-I’m going to put a little pressure on it—not too much, okay?”

“Okay.”

The soft reply from Martin shocks Jon momentarily, before his face melts into an involuntary smile.

“Okay, love. Just here then—”

He presses a length of gauze over the wound, ever so careful not to press against Martin’s windpipe, but he knows that it can’t be comfortable. Beneath his hands, Martin begins to shift, breath growing more audible and rapid by the second, shifting gradually into hyperventilation.

Jon wants more than anything to relieve the pressure, anything to make this better, but his hands remain fixed.

“Martin, you need to stay calm, please. Please, if you can, darling, try to breathe with me. Nice and slow, that’s right.”

He’s trying, he’s _really_ trying, but no words of comfort can reach the overwhelming anxiety spilling over and out through his gasping breaths. Jon knows it’s too loud, that he’ll be heard, that the Hunters will come for them—

“Jon. Listen to me. You _have_ to compel him. You have to. They will find us, and they will take him,” Basira commands, having heard the building commotion behind her.

_Please no please no please no_

Jon stares into her eyes for a few seconds, willing her to be wrong.

“Do it, or I’m leaving you here.”

Jon’s heart drops into his stomach.

When he looks back at Martin, still trembling and short of air, it’s with more guilt than he has ever felt.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and pushes the static toward Martin’s mind.

Immediately, Martin’s breathing normalizes, his face morphing into such an obviously forced calm that Jon wants to be sick. To his horror, tears begin rolling down Martin’s face at once, the only expression of fear still left to his power.

“I’m sorry, darling, I’m so sorry,” Jon mutters, voice wobbling and wet before pressing a kiss to Martin’s forehead.

_Keep moving. Have to keep moving._

He pulls away reluctantly, rummaging back through the first aid kit until he finds an alcohol wipe.

“This is going to sting a bit,” he says as he begins washing it gently over the laceration.

Predictably, Martin winces, though his expression is still limited by the compulsion in a way that Jon finds incredibly disturbing.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Jon finds himself repeating this under his breath throughout the rest of his ministrations, unable to bear what he’s done. Quick as he can, he pulls the skin around the cut together with butterfly bandages, then tapes a good bit of gauze on top, hoping that will at least be enough to get him by. When Martin’s eyes begin to droop closed beneath his hands, he cannot resist running his fingers back through his fringe as he lifts the compulsion.

“There, it’s all done, alright? Sorry if it’s not up to snuff, you’re usually the first-aider here,” Jon murmurs, removing Martin’s glasses from his face to wipe them clean of the remaining blood.

To Jon’s delight, Martin smirks back up at him.

“Long as I don’t bleed out, I reckon it’ll do.”

Jon melts completely at this, grin spreading across his face as he pulls Martin carefully up to sitting, replacing his glasses and fussing at the collar of his shirt before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Are you two done being married yet? Or can we keep moving and avoid certain death?” Basira shouts as she approaches, hands on her hips and glaring.

“R-right, sorry,” Jon stammers as they both flush beet red.

At her charge, Martin cautiously begins to stand, leaning against both a nearby tree trunk and Jon for support when his legs begin to wobble. The sheer determination in his eyes—though ghostly pale and covered in blood—causes Jon’s chest to swell with pride.

_God, I love him._

“Alright, Martin?” Basira asks, tone surprisingly gentle.

“Y-yeah. ‘Course I am,” he replies, gaze almost defiant.

“Right then. Let’s go.”

She nods at the path ahead of them, and they follow, Jon pulling Martin’s arm to drape over his shoulders. Martin exhales a brief chuckle as they walk, and Jon turns to look up at him inquisitively.

“Sorry, it’s just…you know if I fall, I’ll just pull you down with me, right?” he says, grinning widely.

Jon sputters in mock indignation.

“Of course you won’t. I have…Eye strength, or something of that sort, certainly.”

“Oh, right, _Eye strength,_ how silly of me to forget.”

They laugh softly, allowing themselves just a moment of respite before they hurry to catch up with Basira.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! had to get this one off my chest lol. have a great day!


End file.
